


Deciding Agent.

by lentilchip



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Blow Jobs, I Didn't Mean For This To Be This Long And This Sappy But Here We Are, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-05 20:23:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15178613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lentilchip/pseuds/lentilchip
Summary: One way to deal with the absolute travesty of David's Cage is to hone in on the two semi-decent characters and rub my gay little hands all over them.





	Deciding Agent.

Connor found himself in a bit of a linguistic bind.

The term 'uncharted territory' was, by definition, hard to apply to a being endowed with all of mankind's recorded knowledge at the tip of its fingers. But as it were, the span of his current existence hadn't stretched long enough to allow him to gather practical know-how in the things he possessed the theoretical knowledge of. Sure, he had been equipped with numerous protocols to best prepare him for any possible event that could occur in his line of duty. But the fact remained; since the beginning of Connor's existence, every experience had been, by definition, entirely new.

So in this life, in the space post-Cyberlife, post-revolution, post-strolls-in-Amanda's-zen-garden, Connor had come to realise that the void left by what had been, was to be filled with these new experiences. To him, and his new-found range of emotional responses, it felt exhilarating.

Right now, though, he had the distinct feeling that relying on probability and empirical estimation, however many protocols and routines installed, would fall a tad short.

He is currently on Hank's bed. Wearing Hank’s DPD sweatshirt, a few sizes too big on him. Outside the bedroom window, bundled specks of snowflakes drift slowly against the night sky, only to melt instantly when they reach the ground. In the back of Connor's mind, a weather report notice pings insistently – the snowfall would ease up come morning, replaced by some short hours of sunlight. Warm enough for a spring jacket.

"You're yellow again", comes a low rumble.

Connor blinks back into focus, assessing the matter at hand. His hands, currently, occupied with exploring the body belonging to one Anderson, Hank.

"Are you sure about this?", another rumble, breathless but tinged with something sharper. Hank is propped up against the headboard, with Connor carefully balancing his weight on top of him, shorts riding up in a way he classifies as ”uncomfortable”.

His fingers play with the strings of Hank's hoodie, absentmindedly tugging and twirling. Something like a mixture of frustration and melancholy tugs at him, and he knows it's unfair of him. So he looks up at Hank's face.

"Why wouldn't I be?" he responds, cocking his head in a gesture feigning ignorance. A hypothetical question – it didn't take an thousand-dollar mind to list the possible reasons that would lead Hank to think Connor's affections were insincere: Hank's self-doubts. His bruised self-esteem. The long-lived notion that beings like Connor were incapable of genuinely wanting anything, or anyone, for their own selves. And that's just the top three.

Beneath him, Hank grunts and shifts against the linens, brows tight, hundreds of micro-expressions flitting across his face. Connor remembers a distant reprimand; _don't answer my questions with another question, smartass._ He knows Hank wants to say something, can sense it in the silence between them. Neither of them wanting to ruin the mood, as it were: Connor afraid of seeming disingenuous in his reassurance, and Hank feeling frustrated with himself for needing it to begin with.

So Connor fiddles with the strings again, his other hand reaching up to cover Hank's cheek, scratching lightly at the scraggly, gray hairs of his beard. Hank sighs softly. When he cranes his neck, moving in for a kiss, Connor meets him right away. The soft sensation runs through him like a shudder of static, and when Hank licks firmly into his mouth, kissing him proper, Connor’s toes curl.

The events leading up to this were as follows: a dinner (the Friday night special; including one (1) beer), a brief walk with Sumo (15 minutes, the usual route round the block) and a late basketball game (domestic league, largely uneventful, ending in 95–76 to the home team).

Then, at some point, Connor's focus on identifying game tactics had faltered, replaced instead by the registering of Hank’s body heat, the sound of his mouth popping off the bottle neck with every swig of beer, and how the lighting from the flat-screen TV fell rather handsomely on Hank's features. Around the same time Connor had completely lost interest in the game, Hank had seemed to have done the same: at least, judging by his swift response to Connor's advances and the tenderness of his fingers carding through the soft hairs at Connor's neck.

Connor found he liked kissing. He especially liked kissing Hank. If possible, he would want to be doing it all the time. Along with other things, as unfamiliar as they were intriguing. As Hank's breathing had grown fainter and his grip on Connor's neck firmer, Connor realized he very much wanted to acquire the practical experience of these "other things". With it came the conclusion that he ought to do something about it.

So here they were: Game discarded, Sumo sent off to the living room, wooden bed frame creaking under the weight of them both, sharing soft, exploring kisses. Connor runs his hands along the stocky arms framing his body, scratches polymer fingernails against the coarse hair covering a huge percentage of Hank's warm skin. Connor wants to follow their salt-and-pepper trails, over dips and grooves and in under the secretive folds of Hank's clothing. At his touch, Hank’s body gave a full-on shudder.

Hank looked good like this. His washed-out Detroit Gears-shirt riding up on his hairy belly, showing a tempting sliver of skin. His face, a little splotchy, cheeks ruddy from arousal. His erection, slowly filling out against his standard issue DPD boxer briefs.

Connor halts for just a moment, milliseconds long, to take it all in. Snapshots and soundbytes to store away in his memory, for him to flip through whenever he felt the need to. Currently, the storage designated for all things Hank is working overtime. Hours and hours of recorded footage, starting as practical documentation of a professional relationship only to, with time, evolve into something like a private trove of moments to relive endlessly.

"Connor?", comes Hank's rough voice; a breathless sound, carrying lust and a smidge of self-conciousness under Connor’s close scrutiny. 

"I'm with you, lieutenant.", Connor reassures, cutting off Hank’s protest at the honorific, leaning back into Hank's space to kiss him again, letting his hands travel further along the expanse of Hank’s chest. Connor very much enjoys the soft vibration of Hank’s groan against his lips as Connor’s left thumb skirt past a nipple, catching at it to feel it harden.

Connor suddenly has an intense urge to find out what Hank’s nipples would feel against the soft pad of his thumbs. He breaks the kiss, glancing at Hank before leaning in, lips against Hank’s ear.

”Can I take this off?” Connor pulls at the hem of Hank’s shirt. Hank’s grip on Connor’s waist twitched, and he hears the sound of Hank licking his lips, trying the best to steady his breathing.

”You wanna feel me up that badly, sure”, Hank replies, breath warm against Connor’s cheek.The shirt is divested of, and Connor immediately gets to work - combing through the thick hair on Hank’s chest, reaching up to prod at a nipple, feeling it stiffen between the sensors on his fingertips. It’s too much, he thinks, with a sudden urgency, as he lifts his other hand to mirror its twin.

He revels in the way Hank’s mouth falls slack, at the shine of his bottom lip slick with saliva, his and Connor’s mixed together. He can feel Hank’s erection filling out even more, a reassuring hardness against his thigh. It’s entirely too much, Connor confirms helplessly, wanting to take his time with this but also to careen head-first into the next part, at break-neck speed.

Hank’s moans resonate endlessly in his audio feed. Connor takes a quick breath (mostly for show).

Involuntarily, a part of his mind tries, as it always does, to piece together these separate factors into a singular conclusion. Behind the physical indicators (heightened body temperature, increased pupil dilation, heavy perspiration, the hardness throbbing against Connor’s thigh), is the insistent reminder that it is him, Connor, who is the sole cause behind it all. He register a feeling he on earlier occasions had categorised as _pride_. It makes his insides thrill with heat and his pump regulator swell, figuratively.

Motivated, Connor scoots down a little, hands moving lower to stroke along the soft tops of Hank's thighs. He feels Hank curse and jerk beneath him, thighs pressing together. His fingers skirt closer to the edge of the fabric, in close proximity of the obvious bulge in Hank’s underwear. Connor enjoys the way it makes Hank's lower body twitch, gut jiggling with the small shocks. He leans down to kiss the pouch of Hank's stomach.

”Don't know if you mean to be a tease, or if you're just–," Despite the sharpness in the words, Hank's breathing hitches with every slow twirl of Connors fingers, "-just playing around, shit, Connor..."

"Would I ever do that to you, lieutenant?" Somewhere, a notification alerts him that he has in fact done exactly that, on several occasions. He ignores it, to look down at Hank with something he's sure qualifies as a ”crooked grin”. He gets a grumble in response, feels it jostle his body.

"Ditch the titles, for chrissakes. Makes me feel like I'm at work–"

"Hank?", Connor interrupts, in calculated mock apology. As he speaks, he moves his hand to press at the shape of Hank's cock. Whatever reply Hank had prepared is instantly cut off by a drawn-out groan. Connor _feels_ it reverbate through his body before he registers the audio, sensation lingering, an echo whirring away in some compontent deep inside.

Beneath him, Hank’s doing a poor job at disguising the way his hips roll up to meet Connor’s touch. It was becoming increasingly harder to remain factual about this, Connor realises. And so, he decides not to be.

"Does this feel good, Hank?" he asks, a check-in as much as a way to hear Hank talk in that breathy voice again. He liked to hear Hank talk.

”Fuck, isn’t your– your scanner picking that up or something?” Hank groans, beautifully.

Again came the prickling feeling in his limbs, the throb in his thirium pump. While Connor wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the processes tapping away at his mind, he felt this exploration was, up to this point, going smoothly. The RK800 model, despite its advanced equipment, didn’t come with the program sets or hardware required for sexual activities, per se. He had heard of ways other unequipped androids made do, both in relation to other androids and with humans. There was a way, and Connor realised he couldn’t wait to find out.

”Hold up, before you do anything else.” Hank’s hands were at Connor’s sides now, thumbing at the seams of his borrowed sweatshirt. Connor stills his movements entirely and looks up into Hank’s sweaty face, concern suddenly prickling at him.

”Seem fair to you that only one of us is almost buck-naked right now? I’m sitting here in just my boxers, damn it.” Hank bristles, cheeks pink and mouth pursed in what definitely classifies as a scowl. Connor feels a sharp tug in the wiring deep in his gut. Hank was adorable.

”Ah, you’re right." Connor breathes and lifts his arms to let Hank pull off his sweatshirt, chucking it on the floor. ”One for one is only fair, huh?” he quips, unable to stop the small wink initiating unprompted in his right eye.

Hank grumbles, but Connor definitely notices the way his eyes wander across Connor’s torso appreciatingly, despite himself. Connor revels in the way Hank’s broad palms feel as they stroke Connor’s forearms, smooth up along his sides, splaying across the panes of his chest. 

He closes his eyes and allows himself to get lost in the feeling for a bit - to actually feel, rather than register a shift in pressure in his sensors.

He snaps back into it when Hank lets out a small hum of appreciation. Momentarily destracted, Connor deems it best return to his initial approach. In a moment’s notice, his hand is back in Hank’s crotch again, surreptitiously moving in small circles, reveling in the quick switch in Hank’s behavior. Connor knows what happens next, or rather, what he wants to happen next.

He noses along Hank’s chest and belly as he moves, trailing along the wiry curls of hair, leading down, down. His hand on Hank’s erection keeps it slow, insistent pace. Hank has gone very still, breathing quick and strained. A pause.

Suddenly, Connor feels Hank's fingers, a little clammy, brush against his wrist, tapping for his attention. Hank’s other hand is cluthed into a fist, covering his eyes and his reddened face as he speaks.

”As much as I-” Hank stops to breathe, cheeks glowing. ”We don’t have to- I could just...”

At this, Connor blinks once, twice, until his face finally settles on a small smile. He recognises the comment for what it is - a final status check before they take the plunge, no questions asked. Connor appreciates the concern. Still, his resolve remains, along with the growing hum in his would-be heart. He grabs Hank’s other hand, currently pawing at the sheets, and takes another unnecessary breath.

”Can I be real with you, for just a moment?”

Hank ducks his head, but Connor sees the corners of Hank’s mouth twitch, probably at the strangeness of hearing one of his own phrases repeated back at him. ”Sure,” he begins, and if it’s a sense of urgency or just plain nerves that prompts Connor to start talking immediately, he can’t tell.

”Lately,” Connor murmurs, rubbing his thumb at Hank’s scarred knuckles, ”A lot of things have happened to turn my existence onto its head, as I’m sure you’re aware. While my time existing has been, by most standards, short, the part of it that I truly lived is even shorter.”

Hank says nothing, but glances up through his unkempt hair to finally meet Connor’s gaze.

”I’m still in the middle of navigating around this... unfamiliarity. I find myself with the need to adjust, to test it all out, in my own way. To create my own frame of reference, empirically speaking.”

Connor chooses his next words carefully, golden ring spinning and spinning at his temple.

”This new life, with you, us, is one aspect of it. To want things, to independently and genuinely want things for myself, is another.”

Connor watches the quick rise and fall of Hank’s chest. Listens to his short breaths. Experiences everything at once and has to stop himself from going off on dozens of tangents, to lay everything bare, every unspoken truth. He settles, instead, on revealing only the most pressing one.

"And what I want right now is to put you in my mouth, Hank. Would you want me to?”

Hank makes a noise so small Connor's auditory receptors barely pick it up. Playing dirty, he admits to himself, Connor shifts his slackened grip on Hank’s cock, only by a little bit. It twitches weakly in reponse as Hank grunts into his underarm. Connor’s words run softly through his voice modulator, falling smoothly from his lips.

”Only with your, ah, explicit permission, of course. I'd very much like to do it, Hank."

With a huff, Hank peeks down from under his broad wrist, sweaty cheeks glowing.

”Went from prose to porno in three seconds flat there, didn’t you”, he rumbles, voice strained but tender all the same. And Connor knows that Hank is saying yes, damn it, yes.

So he ducks down to lick at the shape of Hank’s cock through his underwear.

At the first swipe of his tongue, his sensors register a multitude of inputs - the brand of laundry detergent from the latest wash, a whiff of soap and sweat on Hank’s skin, the dampness of thirium spit soaking through the white cotton blend. When he mouths along it, he can feel his the microscopic nodes on his tongue catch against the frizzled fibers of the fabric.

”Shit, Connor...”

One of Hank’s hand is in Connor’s hair, the other gripping his shoulder - his touch almost unregisterable with how faint it is, urging Connor on. Through the wettened fabric, he can approximately guess at the full size of Hank’s cock. It makes his teeth tingle. Anticipation creeps along his insides, something he’s never quite felt in this way before.

One of Connor's fingertips slips through the small gap at the crotch, rubbing at warm, hairy, inviting dampness. The 3-second soundbyte of Hank’s moan resonates within Connor’s audio processor for what feels like minutes. He wants to scream, shout, do something, anything with all this crackling of energy inside him.

Instead he whispers: "Can I?"

With a small grunt and an almost bashful look on his face, Hank raises his hips off of the bed by one and two thirds of an inch. Connor, getting the hint, grabs the sagging waistband and pulls it down in one swift motion.

Hank’s cock is thick, flushed red, with a slight curve to it, slapping wetly against his gut as the boxers gather snugly around his testicles. Connor is quick, pressing his lips to the underside of it, almost expecting a spark of static as he does. The small vibrations of Hank’s twitching feels like the same thing, almost.

Connor mouths along the side, registering the warm, silky texture of Hank’s skin, lingering on the distinct _thump-thump_ of his pulse, felt through the thick vein at the root. His fingers grip the base, steadyingly, pressing at the bush of wiry hair, coarse against his sensor-packed skin. A myriad of impressions, all at once. Hank’s strained groans is encouragement enough for Connor to keep going.

At the slick head is another array of data: A tinge of salty pre-ejaculate, musk and something overwhelmingly Hank, dominating his sensors. His testing licks are a little clumsy, and his movements aren’t as practiced as he wants them to be.

Hopefully, he could make up for it with eagerness. Get an A for effort. Without really meaning to, Connor moans softly against Hank’s flesh.

”Jesus Christ, Connor-”

The part of his mind designed to optimize ticks away again. With the vast knowledge from thousands of databases only a quick search away, it’d be tempting to take a calculated approach to this. Reasonable, even, if it weren’t for Connor’s wants getting in the way again.

His hands loosens its grip at the root to tug at the boxers again, looking up at Hank for approval. At Hank’s whispered ”yes”, Connor pulls down the fabric to expose Hank’s testicles. He rubs at one, pulling the soft, loose skin. As he sucks the other into his mouth, his fingers move down to rub over the damp patch of skin beneath his hand that he knows should be sensitive. Hank’s guttural groan confirms this.

It’s overwhelming. He wants to touch, to smell, to taste, to do everything. Selfishly map out these acres of warm skin in front of him. He wants to see the look on Hank’s face as he ejaculates, and to know he had been the one to put it there.

With a hand still palming Hank’s testicles, Connor moves up to drag the flat of his tongue against the glans, sucking at the head wetly. Hank hissed another curse, and Connor knew he had found the mark.

Databases or no, Connor had picked up on a thing or two beforehand anyway. Hank’s little tells were easy to spot, if you paid close attention. How, when Connor sampled evidence, Hank’s eyes sometimes lingered for longer than he probably meant to. Or how, when they kissed, Hank was the first to make it deep and wet, to Connor’s absolute delight.

With that in mind, Connor prompts an increase of saliva production, making a point out of wetly working his tongue and lips over the throbbing length, stopping at the head to finally let Hank slide into his mouth. The stretch of his lips around it feels assuring, as does the moan spilling from Hank’s lips. His own saliva pools at the skin between his thumb and forefinger, gripping the base of Hank’s cock. It is exquisite.

Somewhere along the way, Connor pauses to take off Hank’s boxers entirely. Hank issurprisingly pliable, head lolling back as he lets himself be moved around, toes curling slightly whenever Connor’s fingers gripped at his skin. 

”Connor-”

He knew he liked hearing Hank say his name, as much as Connor himself liked saying Hank’s name out loud. Appreciatingly, and mindful of the angle, his hand went up under Hank’s right knee to rearrange their position, slinging it over Connor’s shoulder. He set to work, head bobbing as he swallowed Hank down again and again.

Something about the firm weight of Hank’s hand pressing on his head felt. Right. When it slides down Connor’s face, brushing against the LED at his temple, Connor leans into the touch. At this, Hank’s cock slips out from Connor's lips with a wet sound, pre-come and thirium spit dribbling down his chin and running in wet streaks along Hank’s hairy thigh.

”Jesus, you’re a mess,” Hank groans, thumb swiping at the specks of slick in the corner of Connor's mouth. Connor thrills at the contact, but can’t stop himself from being, as Hank would say, a smartass.

”Actually, the chemical structure of thirium makes it so that it evapor-” He’s cut off by Hank's fingers over his mouth, thumb pressing gently against his lower lip.

”Not now, damn it.” Hank looks winded.

Connor smirks and follows the digit, mouths at it, gauging Hank’s reaction by the colorfulness of his swearing.

Connor returns to his task, a rhythmical approach finally mapped out for him now - licking, kissing, sucking hard at the head, coating it liberally in spit, humming softly, while applying pressure to Hank’s balls, all at once. Hank isfull-on panting, hips moving in nigh-undetectable twitches, wet gaze directed at Connor and only Connor.

Compelled, he picks up the pace. Hank can do nothing but gasp hotly, bracing himself at the mattress as he drives deeper and deeper into Connor’s mouth. His broad palm is on Connor’s neck now, grip firm, short-trimmed fingernails pressing into his synthetic skin, huffing quick, breathy praise.

”Connor, Connor I-” His voice is unsteady, hips stuttering, thrusting weakly into Connor’s slack mouth. Wanting more. Holding himself back.

Connor feels a strange, hot sensation running along his chrome-alloy spine. If he had any parts equipped, he’d rub his crotch against the bed sheets, seeking release. Right now, with no place for this heat to go, it seemed it settled on traveling around the intricate network of his body, a few degrees shy of triggering an overheat. While still hard to categorize, Connor knew he felt good.

As if he picked up on it, Hank’s clammy palm is cradling his face again, his leg on Connor’s shoulder tensing, foot rubbing insistent circles into Connor’s back.

”Wanna make you feel this good, too,” Hank pants, voice low and slurred. ”Make you come so hard your fucking- ah, your fucking brain gives out. I’ll treat you so good, Connor, I’ll be so damn good to you-”

And Connor can do nothing but moan wreckedly as Hank rambles on, in vivid detail, images and pre-constructions looping in the back of his eyes. The rapid currents soars red-hot right under his skin. In one beat, he braces himself and sucks down Hank to the hilt, safety alerts pinging unread at the unfamiliar breach in his throat.

He stays like that for a moment, nose buried in Hank’s pubic hair, tongue cradling his girth, teeth gently pressing against the root of his cock. He can feel Hank twitching, trying to thrust still, impossibly rocking into Connor’s stuffed mouth - his fingers trail weakly against Connor’s cheeks, mouth open on a sound that won’t come out. Connor prompts the muscles in his throat to tense, squeezing spasmically. Hank curses.

’My body doesn’t need oxygen’, a small part of Connor notes giddily, sparks of arousal running through the tips of his fingers, his ears. More heat alerts ping in his programming, but he ignores them. He didn’t need to breathe. He could stay like this forever, Hank’s cock lodged in his throat, the strange but pleasant buzzing of arousal coursing through his veins.

But then Hank pulls him out of it in three breathy syllables, muffled and slurred against the back of his broad hand. 

”Please, Connor,-”

Hank’s voice is a sob, a whine, a groan all at once. Immediately, Connor flags the audio recording with 'A.Hank:voc_IMPORTANT” and stores it away. And then he complies - fingers hard on that slick patch of skin as he drags himself up, wickedly slow, lips pursed in a tight ring around Hank’s cock.

When Hank comes, it’s with a choked-back moan, his heel digging into Connor’s shoulderblade and an impossible mixture of ectasy, pain and bliss racking through his features. Connor feels as if the image will be burned into the HD lenses of his retinas till the end of time.

Then, another burst of information as his semen hits the roof of Connor’s mouth. He dismisses the prompts listing structural components and dietary intake to focus entirely on the warmth, the taste, the feeling as he swallows it all down. He wasn’t sure if it’d be broken down and repurposed like any other organic material to enter his system. He finds he doesn’t care.

Above him, Hank is completely slumped back against the pillows, both arms across his face, chest heaving. When he uncovers his face, there’s wetness on his cheeks. Connor stills. Hank doesn’t move save for the rise and fall of his chest, blue eyes fixed at some unseen point in the ceiling.

He blinks wetly. Connor tracks his heartbeat until it’s at a resting rate.

”Shit, I’m sorry”, Hank breathes finally, hands coming up to rub at his eyes. ”Don’t know where that came from.”

Connor feels a lump in his throat. ”You don’t have to be sorry, Hank.”, he says, in a voice that comes out smaller than he meant for it to be.

”Still, it’s not fair. I’m not-” Hank falls apart on a strained breath. So Connor waits for him to continue, watches the quick movement of Hank's eyes, flitting across the room.

"I know you get to decide for yourself now, but it's still so..." Hank rubs harder at his eyes. ”To think that I would be the one you’d decide to do all this with. I mean, not just this- " He jerks his head, gesturing downwards. He looks conflicted. Connor feels it to, but lets Hank continue. "A part of me can’t believe it. And I’m trying to ignore it, I really am. It’s not fucking fair of me to distrust you.”

He sighs, scratching his arm roughly. Connor finally moves, puts his hand on Hank’s twitching fingers. Hank still looks away, but doesn’t move his hand. His voice is low, his words falling quickly, a hurried stream.

”I recognize your honesty. I respect it. I respect you. And I hate to make your whole deal, into something that’s all about me, when it’s really not. It’s my stuff to deal with, and...”  
Hank’s fingers move against his, grabbing his hand. Connor aches.

”It’s rough. But it’s getting better. And even if I can’t completely wrap my head around it, the same is happening to you too. And if I was...” Hank’s voice is even lower now, barely a whisper.

”If was even a little bit a part of that happening, only a fraction of the way you made this happen for me, then...” Hank trails off, blush creeping up high on his cheekbones. ”Do you see where I’m getting at, or is this just me rambling again?” 

Hank’s face is red and sweaty and more open than it’s ever been. It makes him look younger than he is, by years, Connor thinks. His chrome heart swells, makes it hard to speak but easy to smile, broadly. 

”Of course I do.”

Connor takes Hank’s wiry cheeks in both hands, not caring about the stickiness still clinging to them, to lean forward for a slow kiss. Noticing the mess left in his beard, Hank makes a small face and wipes it off on Connor’s chin, beard scratching all the while.

They lay like that for a while, Hank’s blunt fingers stroking the inside of Connor’s wrists, thumbing at a small mole there. Connor studies his face, and smiles harder still when Hank’s warm eyes look up at his.

”Oh yeah, uh,” Hank looks a little guilty, suddenly. ”It’s your turn too, of course, if you want to. I was too out of it to really start- I mean... Hell, that’s a bad look on me, isn’t it?” Hank laughs nervously, fingers coming up to smooth across his beard, a nervous tic Connor had picked up on long ago.

Connor runs a small diagnostic. The hot static has died down to a low hum, echoing pleasantly through the wiring of his limbs. It has left him mellow, sinking into the softness of the queen size bed beneath him. And beyond the hardware status, when he looks into himself, he felt content.

”Mm, not now. This is sufficient.”

”’Sufficient’, he says...” Hank grumbles, in a tone Connor registers as ”mock-affront”. ”I come so hard I start blubbering, but he’s happy with ’sufficient.’ I get it.”

Connor smiles into Hank’s shoulder, but says nothing. He thinks of Hank’s heated promises, of how much of it could be doable with the right components. Absentmindedly, he initiates a quick search online, scanning through forums, bookmarking several listings for a thorough perusal in the future. Maybe-

"Your little night-light is going wild, by the way."

Connor stalls for a second, suddenly self-concious. When he notices Hank’s smug smile at making some of Connor’s rare bluster slip through, Connor decides to tell him about 38% of the truth, this time.

"I am putting secondary functions on stand-by so as to focus entirely on audio and video recording. I would want to save this moment for a long time, and I don’t want to miss anything.”

"'Save th-'", Hank flustered, rising to his elbows. "You've got a spank bank-folder in there or what? Jesus-"

"Actually, if you'd like to know, there’s a total of 386 GB of my total memory infrastructure currently dedicated to every piece of information collected concerning you, Hank.”

Hank was beet-red, up to the tip of his ears.

”And with your enthusiastic promise of things to come in our continued physical relationship, I estimate its size will-” Connor’s cut off by Hank’s palm covering Connor’s face, his other hand pinching at the bridge of his own nose.

”Where do you learn to say all this weird shit?”

”I thought you liked it, Hank.” Connor feels a hint of mischievousness pull at the corner of his mouth as he moves closer, settling against the pillows. ”Enough to leave you ’blubbering’, if I recall correctly.”

”Yeah, I bet you recall it in crisp 1080p, goofball. And don’t flatter yourself." Hank huffs, but sidles up against Connor anyway, tangling their legs together.

Connor brushes a strand of Hank’s hair off his forehead, mapping every point as Hank’s face scrunches up briefly. He’s ticklish, Connor concludes, and makes a memo to revisit that particular information at a later point in time. He presses a soft kiss against Hank's forehead, hears him sigh contently.

Several moments later, Hank has dozed off, snoring softly. Connor doesn’t need milliseconds to go over every mole and wrinkle, but instead allows himself to simply watch Hank’s sleep-smoothened features, eyelids twitching softly, mouth open to show the small gap in his teeth. 

If anyone didn’t think Connor capable of love, he’d make his best effort to try and recount, thoroughly, what he felt in this exact moment.

He lets it stretch on a little while longer.

Finally, he adjusts his position, curled up against Hank, arm slung across his broad chest, then initiates his nightly recuperation mode. As his processors slow down, initiating one long diagnostic run, he focuses slowly on the weight of Hank’s hand splayed across Connor’s chest, and the feeling of his hand on top of Hank, right over his heart.

His final concious thought before shutting down is how the rhythm of their heartbeats sync up perfectly.


End file.
